


Seven Children of France

by itsyourownpersonaljesus



Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: AH YES, Adopted Children, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Brance, Child Death, Children, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Français | French, French Characters, French Revolution, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, Kings & Queens, M/M, Middle Ages, Minor Character Death, Mmmmm, Modern Era, Parent-Child Relationship, Timeline What Timeline, Welcome, World War I, ah thats an important one too, cause this is about france after all, debated between i and ii tbh, dont @ me, i hope i actually finish this, i may or may not have a bias for france, i mean its literally in france all the characters are french except uk, just immortals being immortals, let france be happy 2k20, medieval france too, mmm thats my favorite tag, my tags:, some - Freeform, some actual research, that too, thats fun, the medieval french monarchy, there is no timeline when you live forever, this bouta be a wild ride yall, this is for all the fellow france stans out there, this right here?, we love france getting the happy ending he deserves, we love the plague, you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24196078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsyourownpersonaljesus/pseuds/itsyourownpersonaljesus
Summary: France may not have the best reputation around in regards to civil rights or equality, progress is slow, as in all nations of the world. But, what France does have, is a kickass family healthcare system and government support for families, children, working mothers, etc.So I, a known France stan, have taken this to mean that France loves kids, and this is my exploration of that, from all the way back in the dark ages, to the current modern era, these are just seven of the many kids France has lowkey adopted.tldr; give france a family 2k20, he's a tired immortal and flipping deserves it ok, this is that, this is my roundabout way of giving france a family, we'll get there eventually i promise(also worth mentioning that this is not about french colonies in anyway, and this is not about america and/or canada)
Relationships: England & France (Anthropomorphic), France & Historical French Figures, France & Original Character(s), France & United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic), France/Original Character(s) (it aint endgame dont worry lmao), France/United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 14





	Seven Children of France

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Paris in the 1790s, it was pretty terrible, let's be honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaaa i had too much fun writing this
> 
> also also- just so y'all know, all the dialogue until the very very end is in french, but because im a hoe i still added french phrases and dialogue, which are translated at the bottom

  


The streets of Paris were always beautiful, always had been, even back when the streets were made of dust and dirt and houses were cobbled together haphazardly, the sun still glowed orange and red through the paths and alleyways that crisscrossed the city in intricate patterns as the buildings grew taller and the city spread out like a drop of water on cloth. It was a city that would always hold beauty in his eyes, how could it not? It was his home, his heart, his capital, and it was beautiful in the fashion of objectivity. There were many, many places in the world that were not objectively beautiful. Paris was not one of those places. And yet, to France himself, Paris was beautiful not just in objective measure, but also in the way that a parent may think even their ugliest child to be beautiful among their friends and peers, maybe only as a reflection of the child’s personality, and not at all a reflection of their physical appearance. Paris was far more physically beautiful than it was in personality, though he loved both equally and unconditionally, whether because he was all but required to as a parent would love a child, or because it was a reflection of himself, or because it simply appealed to his personal tastes he might never know. In any way, shape or form, and for whatever reason one wanted to give it, France thought Paris was beautiful. Even now, as terrified as he was in the moment.

Even now, as he was all but dragged through the streets, their cobbled paths passing in a blur of motion, and yet were the most clear image in his mind, as if every second was taken and painted elaborately in his mind, as if to remember the sight for the last time, as if he may never see it again. People hid in their homes and apartments, shutting the doors and windows hurriedly, not to be caught unawares by the tireless force that claimed to work for the good and safety of the public, but did nothing but work to terrify them. And France struggled against their hold, fighting them, yelling to their stoic expressions that he had not done anything wrong, nothing that warranted arrest and... what might come after. 

What would surely come after, he thought, a mix of long-suffering exasperation and genuine fear warring for space in his mind and heart. His eyes caught another’s, along the street, a small child’s face peeking out from behind a few abandoned crates, eyes wide, confused and scared, but curious in the way only children were. Remarkably astute for the air of a situation, yet not fully understanding the events and actions that unfolded before them. And in the face of such innocent, fearful curiosity, France grew still in the hold of the officers, his breathless protests stopping abruptly, his mouth snapping shut as he looked at the child. They were young, too young to be alone on the street, with rosy cheeks and an unruly head of hair, and France wanted to know where their parents were, if they were even still alive, and if they were, why their child was hiding behind crates on the street. 

There was a second of stillness, the officers paused in wake of France’s sudden silence, and he had a chance, a moment in which he smiled at the child, his shackled hand moving in a small wave, a soft, “Bonjour.” fell from his lips, and he kept his expression soft, tried not to bely the fear he himself felt, because this was no sight for a child, for someone so young, someone who should still know the innocence of childhood imagination and the loving embrace of a family. He watched the child from his place, half standing, half leaning in the hold of the two officers that had knocked on his door this mid-morning only to read off charges that he hadn’t had the presence of mind to comprehend as crimes he had committed, perhaps because they weren’t crimes, not truly, not under the written law, not in anyway that there was evidence to be had beyond hearsay and paranoia. The child’s face pinched in confusion before they smiled, small and uneasy. They waved hesitantly in response, keeping their hand low, and France grinned at them, oddly and inexplicably proud of someone he knew nothing about and had never seen before. They were smart, bright, and France hoped they would survive to see a ripe old age with grey hairs and a family of their own, though it was relatively unlikely.

The moment didn’t last long, a handful of seconds, if that, before the officers snapped at him to keep moving, though it was more a formality or reflex, as France wasn’t terribly keen on willingly following them anywhere, and by now they would’ve known that. The child’s eyes grew wide in response, ducking behind the crate again, and France... France stayed silent. He didn’t make the journey any easier, but he didn’t protest, didn’t plead for mercy or release, the young, small kid was scared enough without having to hear someone begging for their life on the street, they’d probably heard that sound enough times now to last many hundreds of lifetimes. France wouldn’t add to that, couldn’t, in good conscious, especially for the fact that though he may die, it certainly wouldn’t be permanent. Right?

It wouldn’t- would this be the end of him? Would he truly die for the last time by the hands of his own people? By the order of a weak, paranoid government on the brink of collapsing in on itself? France closed his eyes, refusing to let his hands shake, for his fear to show in any physical manner, even if there was no one here that would judge him for his fear, not when every soul present knew what his fate would be, and knew what awaited him. There was no hope to be found in any trial, not when one man was judge, jury, and executioner, and that one man was slowly slipping down a descent into madness.

He looked above him, the morning sun alighting the sky in a brilliant blue, a scattering of white clouds throughout it, the colors striking against each other, warring for his attention, and yet complimenting the presence of one another. Such a tragically beautiful day, the rays of the sun kissing the tops of the Parisian buildings, following paths through the streets and not yet high enough in the sky to hit them directly. And, for a moment, France thanked God for letting him see his city at its most beautiful before what was to come, and hoped, silently, that he may last until sunset, so that he may see the city awashed in those golden hues once more, if this was to be his last day on Earth. He had no real way of knowing for sure, after all.

It was another three miles, no, wait, it was another five kilometers, because not even something as simple as a measurement of space could stay the same under this upheaval of the status quo, until they reached the prison where France would probably spend anywhere between hours and months, though he knew there were executions scheduled today, so the former was far more likely. He was exhausted, all this fighting and resisting was only a pitiful attempt of delaying the inevitable and he had only succeeded in fatiguing himself further than he had been before, amid the limited food supply and the stress of the revolution, the sleepless nights, the days at war, the constant state of horror and fear and paranoia, always, always paranoia, like everything was out to get him, like if he looked away for a split second it would be his demise, like any day, any hour, could see armies from any surrounding country march through, reinstating the monarchy, molding France into their perfect image of him, something more manageable, something more like them. Just another link in the circle of chain, another strand in the disorganized web, one line not knowing where it ends or begins, another member of this twisted family tree, and now that he’d cut off his branch, they were coming in to force it back on, tie it to the trunk with silk ribbons and pretend nothing had changed. But his leaves would die, would fall to the ground, parched and brown, his flowers would not bear fruit, his bark would crack and dry, becoming the kindling that would eventually burn the entire tree into nothing but ash and dust. There was a part of France that wanted to see that.

But there was a larger part of him that wouldn’t go back to that for all the world, too tired was he of hundreds of years of absolute power in the high courts and a starving populace, so burdened by taxes it was better to die than to live to pay them. Of all his options, turning back to that was by far the worst of them, he might rather die than see that come to pass, and, at this point, there really was no way to go back to that, he may be too far gone at this point, his only option was to move forward and hope that there may be at least a few left after this reign of terror ended, if it ever would. He hoped it would. 

Oh. He was in a cell. When did he get here? He didn’t remember passing through the doors, or walking down the halls, or sitting down against damp stone walls, on a damp stone floor. How long had he been staring out the small barred window? How much time had passed? Did it even matter? Probably not, it wasn’t as though he was going anywhere, there was no hope for escape and if there was, where would he go? His home was here, as unsafe as it was these years, and this was his country, his capital, he had a responsibility to see it through its history, even the worst parts. Where would he even go? It wasn’t as though he could take refuge in another country. It was a laughable concept, the thought of going to London, showing up on the doorstep of Great Britain, asking for refuge, it brought a smile to his face, and he breathed a quiet, latent laugh, which morphed into a sigh at the end of its life. Odd that he had thought of Britain of all people, he would have much better luck with Italy, or Spain, or maybe he could book passage all the way to America, hope that he would forgive their little on and off war on the sea and let France into his home, they were allies after all. Sort of. Not really.

It was a pointless query anyway, there was no way out of here, this prison, this city, or the country as a whole, especially for him. It was merely a way of occupying his mind as he watched the square of reflected light on the dark floors stretch slowly across the space with the movement of the sun. He didn’t sleep, though he was impossibly tired, he didn’t close his eyes, didn’t feel the pull of rest over the thrumming anxiety and worry in his mind. And the resignation to his fate compelled him to spend as many of these moments as awake as he could, for this could be his last day, it probably wouldn’t be, he could never have such luck as that, but there was always that small, whispering, _what if_ , and he didn’t really know whether he wanted that or not. It was a bit of both, he was sure, somewhere around a thousand years was starting to wear on his immortal soul, if he had one, but the part of him that longed for glory, remembrance, and notoriety, the part of him that longed for _life_ , told him he wasn’t done quite yet.

There was a guard at the door now, and France turned to face him through a slow fog of thought, or its opposite. The officer informed him that his trial would commence, and France breathed another wry laugh at the word ‘trial’, it was hardly going to be anything of the sort. He got up slowly, walking to the door, letting his hands be cuffed by heavy iron without protest, the guard looking at him with an expression France could only describe as sad, remorseful, and pitying, as though he was mourning France before he was even gone. France smiled at him, another sad expression in the long, dimly lit stone hallway, perhaps it was a reassurance, or perhaps France was joining him in mourning, he knew not which one it was. France wanted to know the man’s name, but didn’t ask, wouldn’t make it harder on either of them, wouldn’t force a human conversation on someone ordered to aid in inhuman acts, he wouldn’t put that weight on this man’s soul, would only pray silently for him, even if he was no longer meant to pray to God. He still did anyway, only to himself in quiet, lonely moments, but he wouldn’t mention that, it wouldn’t help his case regardless. 

They walked. France did what he could to follow the pace set, and had a small suspicion that the guard slowed down for him when he noticed France’s latent steps. They still said nothing to one another, and at the courthouse, he left France in the line of a few other defendants, ten or so perhaps, and turned away without further word or kind gesture. There was nothing to say, no advice he could give, none that France didn’t already know, and none that would help the situation.

The shackles weighed on his wrists, cutting into his skin, but he paid it as little mind as he could, staring ahead at the trials unfolding in front of him. The death sentences handed out like nothing more than the daily newspaper, handed out like they didn’t carry the weight of a soul, a person’s life on them, like they weren’t spelling out a permanent end, like they weren’t taking something that could never be given back again. Like they were nothing at all. The reactions varied, some collapsed to their knees in shock, some broke into sobs, holding their heads in their hands, some protested at the unfair trial, called for justice that they would never receive, some looked to crying relatives in the benches, trying to tell them it would be alright while they were dragged through the doors, and some were resigned, and silent, only bowing their heads in the confirmation of what they already knew was coming. France was last in the line, and no others came to join their small, tragic procession. He was quiet through his trial, answering their questions, when they decided to ask him instead of just reading his supposed criminal actions back to him. He pleaded not guilty, but did not beg for mercy, he wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. 

He was sentenced to death.

There was an execution scheduled that day, it was already underway, and to save time, or to save space in the prison by emptying the cells, France, along with the others sentenced that day, were to be a part of it. No time to even come to terms with their deaths, the end of their lives nothing more than an inconvenience, a simple process of elimination, extermination, one that could be made more efficient by combining the list into one mass execution, and a hundred more bodies to fill the mass graves that made the air acrid with the scent of decay. So, no, they got no time to process, and France was stood in a slow moving line with only one outlet, only one outcome, and, again, France did not remember getting to this line, did not remember leaving the courthouse, did not remember anything beyond his sentencing and the subsequent ringing in his ears. And now, he stood in a long line, hearing the blade ahead of them come down in a sickening noise at every interval, though he could not see the device itself, still hidden behind the building the line wrapped around. A slight breeze blew through the city, cool enough that France adjusted his stance in surprise, but not cold enough to make him uncomfortable where he stood. It was a spring wind, and it felt nice on the skin of his face, though it carried the scent of death on it, he closed his eyes, leaning his head back to the sky, and tried to drown out the sounds around him, the sounds of the blade that awaited him, the sounds of people crying out in anger or despair, the deafening silence of death between their cries. 

France focused only on the sky, the breeze, the cerulean blue of the afternoon,and the clouds that moved slowly above him; they wouldn't have rain for at least a few more weeks with clouds like these. The line moved forward, and France moved forward with it, ever approaching the end of... something. Perhaps the end of his life, but perhaps not, perhaps only the end of the day.

It was not the first time he’d ever seen a guillotine, when he reached the edge of the wall that had blocked his view of the invention itself, but looking at it from this angle, from this line of terror, knowing that he was subject to the same fate on this day, struck a note of fear in his heart that he seldom felt, and knew that, if he were to survive this, he would not speak of the fear he felt now to anyone at all, because fear of your own nation was different than fear of another. And there were times, even now, that he felt a twinge of fear in the presence of others, just as they had felt fear in his presence, on the battlefield or off. But here, there was no invading army, nor great plague or famine, nor storm or fire or earthquake to fear, only his own government, and their _humane_ executions. It wouldn’t hurt, and he could take some comfort in that, that it would be fast, and he wouldn’t feel it, right?

The sky grew darker, holding hints of lilac as the sun set into a late afternoon, the wind blew slightly stronger now, and France kept his hands in fists to prevent them from shaking. Someone in the crowd had started sobbing, and he wondered why there was even a crowd at all, what sort of enjoyment was seen in this, what manner of morbid curiosity compelled them onto these stone streets? What were they looking for in this deadly procession? Why were they here? Why were any of them here? France shouldn’t be here, he’d done nothing wrong, he’d done no wrong and yet he’d been sentenced to death and it didn’t matter that he would probably survive because he didn’t have to die at all, and neither did the rest of the damned souls sentenced to this fate, and it wasn’t fair, nothing about this was fair, and the sobbing was so _loud_ , and the fell of the blade was echoing, echoing, echoing in his mind, and the sun was glinting deviously off the bloodied blade, he could see it now, all of a sudden he was so close to it and it hurt his eyes to look at it but he couldn’t look away could only follow the slow climb up and the fast, fast journey down and the _sound_ that came after and the sick feeling in his stomach and all of sudden he couldn’t breathe-

He couldn’t breathe, he was staring up at his own death, and he couldn’t breathe. He knew he wouldn’t die, not permanently, yet he still felt paralyzing fear looking up at what _could_ be the end, and for the first time, perhaps ever, he wished he wasn’t as human as he was, because maybe then he wouldn’t be so overwhelmingly frightened by the next death to add to his long list of deaths previous. He preferred it when they were quick, he didn’t like to think about death, he didn’t like having time to be scared, fear was unbecoming. He hated feeling afraid, more than he hated anything else, more than he hated overaged wine, more than he hated the winter cold, more than he hated losing, more than the plague, or armor piercing arrows, or stale bread, or Great Britain, or the entire Germanic family to the west, more than he hated despair and anguish. More than he hated immortality. 

The body in front of him was moved from the wooden scaffold, the blade brought back up, ready to fall again.

It was his turn.

His feet moved, but his eyes stayed locked on the smeared blood on the steel above him, it was so revolting, and he failed to suppress a shudder as he looked at it. His arms felt numb, his legs felt numb, his body felt as though it were puppeted by another person entirely, as though he were only watching his own movements, unable to change or affect them. His charges were read to him, but he didn’t really hear them, everything sounded as though it were underwater, the crowd was near silent, muffled sobs for past or future victims called throughout the faces he saw. No one was here for him. 

He didn’t have any last words, when he was asked, and even if he did, he didn’t trust himself to speak, didn’t trust that his voice wouldn’t tremble, didn’t trust that he would be able to say the words at all. 

They forced him to kneel, though it didn’t require much force, France didn’t fight their movements, the righteous anger and self preservatory instincts he’d had that morning had left him now, and he fell easily under their hold, cringing as he set his neck in the divet of wood that had been the final sight, the final feeling of tens of thousands of people before him. He could not see the blade from this angle, but felt its looming presence above him.

The cobblestone of the city square below him was slightly damp with water, shining amber in the light of the setting sun to the west. Directly below him those same stones were dyed a sickening crimson that turned his stomach when he looked at it. He turned his head, and saw, through the buildings beyond, and reflecting golden flecks of light off the Seine, was the setting sun, the beautiful, magnificent setting sun that he had always loved to see. It was a sight he’d found comfort in for hundreds of years, and now, he once again found comfort in it, and the brilliant blue sky above him, the clouds set alight in orange and pink by the sun’s rays. It was one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen.

He wanted to paint it, immortalize it, but immortalization was a cruel fate for any sight, sound, or consciousness. Perhaps the sight would die with him.

A calm washed over him, a tranquility he hadn’t felt in some time. It felt like he could breathe again, there was no sound, no physical feeling in his body, only a soft, cool breeze over his skin, threading through his hair, and the kind warmth of the sun on his face. 

He breathed in, and he almost-

  


* * *

  


France gasped as his chest heaved with new breath, his pulse speeding up to a rapid pace he could feel against his ribcage, and hear in his head. A dark dome of stars shone above him, a waning gibbous moon high in the sky, a bright white, and he saw it for only a second before he registered a shock of fiery pain down his spine so great his body moved unconsciously to get away from it, though it was remarkably hard to move. His eyes blinked rapidly against the pain, his sight couldn’t seem to adjust to the darkness around him, everything was a blurred mess of shadowed surroundings, his breaths heavy and frantic. He moved his arms, freeing them from underneath _something_ , reaching blindly for his neck, his jaw, noting something awfully unnatural about the angle there. How he could move at all, he did not know, could only chalk it up to an unjust cruelty or a divine blessing, which tended to describe most of his experience.

He grit his teeth, sucking in a breath as he searched for a good angle, something with a bit of leverage, and, when he found it, he prayed. He prayed he would not make a bad situation worse, or he prayed he would kill himself on accident, he prayed this would do anything to ease the pain he felt in the moment. He squeezed his eyes shut, prayed, and with one hand he pushed, while the other pulled. 

There was a sickening crack, a sound muffled by flesh and horrific within the context of which it took place. His back arched in agony, his body trying to roll over, curl in on itself instinctually, and he opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out, only a pathetic, breathy wheeze to express the molten shock the flowed down his spine and through his limbs, his stomach turning as he gagged in the wake of it, gaze skating over his dark surroundings, though not tracking any of them, seeing but not observing. His lungs continued to heave pained wheezes as he lay in complete stillness for an indeterminable amount of time, too afraid to move for fear of more pain, more burning anguish to endure. He choked out a broken sob but found that he could not hear it, that he could not make any sound at all.

He breathed, it was all he could do, all he could manage at the moment, and with the terrible weight on his chest even that was made difficult. He breathed, his eyes closed, for a length of time he did not know, but when he blinked his eyes open again, the moon had moved a significant distance in the sky. Funny, the last time he saw the moon the gibbous had been waxing, almost full, some time had passed then.

The mysterious something still lay on top of him, which he now had the presence of mind to devote his attention to. He moved his arms down to grab at it, and struggled against it, trying to push it away, his movements growing frantic the more he pushed to no avail, no strength behind his arms, only disorientated hysteria. It was heavy, whatever it was, and it lay like a dead weight on his chest, the smell was overwhelmingly awful and he struggled not to gag in the face of it. 

With the right leverage, and great heave, it rolled off of him, though not fully. The bulk of its body now rested beside him, but an arm still remained on his chest.

An arm?

France’s eyes widened with renewed horror, and he sat up suddenly to scramble away from the- the corpse next to him, ignoring the dizzy vertigo in his head in his hurry to get away. His hand sunk into something cold, and wet, with a squelch, and he looked down.

His hand was in a corpse. Another one. A pocket of decay that had opened with the help of rats and maggots no doubt, he could feel the small worms beneath his hand now, but couldn’t move, he sat stock still with raw terror and icy panic. He looked at the ground, his eyes finally adjusting to the low light, and saw an expansion, a lumpy, uneven field of corpses. A mass grave.

He lifted his hand slowly, feeling ill at the sensation, whispering an apology under his breath though his throat burned with it. He turned around, away from the violated corpse, crawling over the piled bodies, continuing to mutter apologies through his voiceless state, every shift under his weight bringing a fresh wave of that ill feeling and utter despair with it. This was misery, this was anguish, and as he reached the edge of the pit, he let out another broken, soundless sob as he used the corpses to boost himself over the edge, immediately thereafter scrambling hurriedly away from the grave as if it might burn him to get too close.

It was here, in the middle of an extensive flat field, the edge of the city not even a mile away, that he sat, hugging his knees to his chest, tears streaming silently down his cheeks as he stared vacantly ahead of him. 

The moon was on a descent now, it must be around the early hours of the morning, dawn would approach in a few hours, and it would not do for anyone to find him here, he had to keep moving, he had to get back home, but his limbs were filled with lead and his lungs struggled with short, stilted breaths, his head pounded with each beat of his heart and he felt so, so tired. A breeze blew over him, and he shivered against it, the cold air hitting his skin through the thin shirt he’d died in. He looked down at it, and even through the dark night he could see dark stains against the previously crisp white fabric, that was a shame, he had really liked this shirt.

He made to stand, his legs shaking with the effort, and he had to put his arms out to balance himself against the onset of a dizzying lightheadedness. He put his hands on his knees, closing his eyes to swallow down the sick feeling in his core, taking a few more weak, tremulous breaths as he did so. Rising again after a handful of minutes had passed, he took a few cautious steps through the grassy fields towards the road that led to the city, lamenting his lack of shoes, not remembering whether or not they’d been taken before he’d died, or if his corpse had been looted for them and any other valuables on his person. He couldn’t remember whether or not he’d been wearing anything else at the time.

He walked the long way around the mass grave, casting his eyes down to avoid its looming, dreadful, mocking presence, hugging his arms around his chest as he walked, whether to keep warm against the chill of the night, or to offer some comfort to himself, he knew not. 

When he reached the outskirts of the city he kept to the darkened alleys between buildings, avoiding the candlelit streets where discovery was more likely, he did not much feel up to explaining his present condition to the authorities, or to speaking with the authorities in general. More than anything, he wanted to return to his townhouse in the city, open a bottle of wine, drink it, maybe have a second, and sleep, perhaps if he was truly fortunate, he might be able to sleep the same number of years this government may last. In the beginning of this revolution, France had been eager to change and inspired to do so, he had been overexcited and caught up in the overall zeal of the city, but years now had worn on, and Robspierre and only grown more and more insane, mad with this power over France’s country, and government. It was frightening, and France didn’t much feel like a revolutionary nation, a progression meant to be a light for others to look to for inspiration and in admiration. He felt rather like he may pass out at any moment.

He was so _close_ though, there was maybe another mile, no, kilometer? Two kilometers? He didn’t remember, and it didn’t matter, his government had killed him and he didn’t have to adhere to their odd rules, or regulations, their ridiculous new calendar, or their god. 

He was only another mile from his house, his _home_ , but his body wouldn’t step any further, wouldn’t move forward no matter how he willed it to. He put a hand on the brick wall beside him, sliding down to sit at the entrance of a small alley between closed shops down one of the many main streets of the city, and he closed his eyes, listening to a quiet drip from somewhere further down. 

There was another quiet sound, a shuffle, small footsteps and another shuffle, a shift against the wall in front of him. A remarkable effort seemed required to bring himself to open his eyes, as though now that they had been allowed to close, they refused to ever open again. He cracked one eye open.

Against the dark brick wall in front of him sat a young child, rosy cheeks, an unruly head of hair- Oh. He remembered this kid.

They mirrored him, sitting against the opposite wall, their knees up in front of them, their arms resting on top of their bent knees. They stared at him with bright, wide eyes, shocked, bewildered and curious, but not fearful.

France didn’t know what to make of this situation, opening both of his eyes to stare back at the child with his own tired gaze. He tried to offer a small smile, moving his fingers in some semblance of a wave. They waved back at him, a small grin of their own on their face, chubby cheeks framing it.

“Bonsoir Monsieur.” They whispered across the alley, smile growing in innocent joyful amusement.

France let out a breath of laughter in response, “Bonsoir.” He whispered back, the air near soundless.

They leaned forward, putting their chin on their arms, looking up at him, “Are you a ghost?” Their voice was continuously curious, eyes flitting over his form briefly.

France leaned forward as well, mirroring them this time, “It depends on what a ghost is. But, non, I’m not dead.” He smiled softly, an amused edge to it as he watched the child’s eyes widen into small saucers on their face, their mouth hanging agape.

“How did you survive?” They asked incredulously, and France laughed, or tried to, at the idea that to them, speaking with a ghost was somehow less shocking than a conversation with an undead man. A matter of perspective, perhaps.

France waved his fingers in an exhausted attempt at dramatic flair, “Magique.” He whispered, watching as they gasped, eyes wide even still, awe genuine in the ways only found in children. France grinned in response, “What’s your name?” He asked softly.

They tilted their head to the side, “Horace.” They replied.

“Just Horace?” France questioned, raising a brow.

Horace giggled softly, “Non Monsieur, Horace Vernet.”

France grinned fondly, shoulders moving in a silent laugh, sticking a hand out to him, “I am La France. Enchanté, Monsieur Vernet.”

Horace shook his hand enthusiastically, and France noted that he had a strong grip for someone so young. Letting go of France’s hand, Horace tilted his head again, frowning in question, “La France? Like the country?” He asked quietly.

“Oui, exactement.” France smiled, his arm retreating to his knees, resting his chin there once again, “You don’t have to use my full name though, just France is fine.”

“D’accord, Monsieur France.” Horace laughed again, but quieted upon realizing his volume, glancing to the street.

France followed his gaze, watching silently for anyone, and, after a minute with no one seen nor heard, he turned back to Horace, “Where are your parents, Horace?” He asked, tentative and soft.

Horace shrugged, his eyes cast downward, still frowning, “I... don’t know.” He whispered, “My auntie... She was taken, and, and I was scared, so I ran, and, and then I couldn’t find my papa.” His voice wavered, and he hugged his knees to his chest.

France’s heart ached, “Oh, don’t worry Chéri, I will help you find him, he wouldn’t have left without you, I’m sure.” He assured softly, adjusting his posture to sit cross-legged in front of Horace.

Sniffing, Horace looked at him, eyes red and glossy, “Really?”

“Really.” France affirmed in a breathy whisper, “Do you know where they live?” He questioned, rolling his shoulders to counter the ache that was beginning to accumulate there.

He sniffled quietly, and made a remarkable effort to keep the tremor from his voice, “We, we lived on Rue Saint Martin, but,” He cast his gaze to the dirty stone street below them, “I- I got lost, I can’t-” He sniffed, mumbling into his arms, “I can’t read the signs.”

France smiled at him softly, “That’s alright, no shame in it.” He reassured, “I know where that street is, I can take you there.” He offered, though he cringed internally, knowing the route to that street traveled far out of his way home, and he was so _tired_.

It was worth it though, he figured, because Horace’s eyes lit up in amazement and _hope_ , which was such a rare sight in the city these days, “Oh merci! Merci beaucoup Monsieur!” He whisper-shouted across the alley.

“Bien sûr, bien sûr,” France hushed him with as much voice as he could muster, grinning at his hopeful excitement and gratitude, “I’d love to help you find your family.”

Sniffing, Horace wiped his nose with the back of his hand, at which France cringed slightly but didn’t say anything upon seeing the expression on his young face, one that France couldn’t quite name with words, but one that warmed him through to his core, made him feel as though he might have made a true difference in the life of one person in this city, one that tugged at his heart, brought a slight burn to his eyes and a warmth in his cheeks. Horace stood from the ground then, pushing up off the wall, bouncing on his feet and looking at France excitedly, “Allons-y, allons-y, s’il vous plaît Monsieur, before the sun rises!” He made a valiant effort in keeping his voice at a stage whisper, though it raised to a near normal speaking volume.

France hushed him hurriedly, “D’accord, d’accord, we will go now, but it is important that we keep quiet, right?” He smiled softly, before standing himself, turning to get his legs under him and leaning against the wall as he stood, closing his eyes against the black spots that danced across his vision and the rush of vertigo he felt.

One hand still hung at his hip, and he felt a small, cold hand hold his, Horace’s quieted voice across the cool night air, “Ça va Monsieur?” He asked softly.

France swallowed, nodding slightly to himself and then looked down at Horace, smiling reassuringly, “Oui, oui, merci, we should get going though, I’m sure your papa is beside himself with worry.”

Horace nodded in return, far more enthusiastically than France had, though his small face was pinched in childlike concern, looking up at France with wide eyes, “You don’t think he’ll be too angry?” He asked, muttered really.

France squeezed the small hand in his, “I think he’ll just be happy to have you back home.”

Horace grinned thankfully at France, looking out at the street, seeing it empty and pulling France out of the alley, immediately taking a left and walking suredly down the dark street, lit naught by even candlelight.

France breathed a laugh, stopping in his tracks, causing Horace to turn to him with a confused, almost hurt expression. France smiled wider, nodding his head in the direction opposite them, “We’re going the wrong way.” He tugged gently on the small hand in his grip to emphasize his point.

“Oh.” Horace looked at him surprised, before he giggled quietly, walking past France, ahead of him to tug him along, France following easily, an amused grin in his expression.

They made a slow journey through the darkened streets of Paris, between their careful avoidance of the occasional authority figure roaming the dimly lit city, ducking into shadowed alleyways and traveling in a roundabout way, avoiding main streets on their way to St. Martin, and stopping to rest more often than either of them would have liked when France could not go any further without catching his breath, as well as he could that is. Regardless, they made their way through the city, Horace speaking in a hushed, excited tone of the various things he was excited to do when he got back home, of the people he was excited to see, while France nodded along with a grin, squeezing the small hand within his, interrupting only to direct their path forward.

Here, in the city, lit only partially by candle light but mostly by the moon and stars above, it was hard to recall the dark, cold misery of hours previous, hard to remember death when he held the hand of a child, the very proof of a continuation of life. It quite suddenly seemed ridiculous, to France, to have ever thought this might have been the very end of himself, what a foolish notion that was, when there was so clearly a preservation, no, an endurance of the French people, of France itself, and himself. 

Fear ran a tighter regime than any king ever had, and the current near dictatorship was hardly the democratic process he’d so longed for after fighting for the revolution in America. Now, he had to fight for his own revolution, for his own ideals, yet he couldn’t change his government, nor the choices they made, he had only to hope that it would not always be this way. And, in the meantime, while he had only hope for the future, he would fight to protect his country, and its choices from the prying eyes and hands of others, he would work, as much as he could, to protect the French people, _his_ people, because they were his everything. All he had, the very heart, soul, life in his body, and maybe, just maybe, he could live with the burden of immortality, if it meant they could continue to live, continue to thrive within his borders.

He smiled softly, that seemed alright to him. Life didn’t seem as weighted now, in this small, quiet moment. He might even pretend that this Parisian night was like any other.

There was a gasp from beside him, “Monsieur France! I know this place! Allons-y, allons-y, I know where my house is!” Came the excited voice of Horace, who hurried his pace down the street, subsequently pulling France to his pace, who laughed quietly, attempting to match the speed born of childlike energy and overexcitement. Though France could hardly blame Horace, he too, after all, was quite eager to see his own home, and he had not been lost in the map of a too-big city with no way of knowing the way back to his house, family, and home.

“Oui, oui, I’m coming, I’m coming, Chéri, the house will not disappear before we get there, we do not have to rush.” He laughed out in a whisper, but continued to follow Horace down the street nonetheless. 

No longer than five minutes passed, the whole time Horace seeming to debate between leaving France behind and breaking in to run, and constantly looking back to make sure he was still following, but eventually they stopped in front of a decent sized townhouse, one that blended in, near indistinguishable from the buildings beside it, the walls of variable dark grey bricks and stone, the rook slanted and the windows elaborate and curtained. There was light shining through the lines of those curtains, someone in the house would still be up then. Horace tugged at his hand, and France looked down to him in question, already wondering why he wasn’t frantically and animatedly rushing up the path to the front door.

His rounded, youthful face appeared quite uncertain suddenly, nearly afraid, as if now that they had finally gotten here, he was struck by a nervousness that he had previously ignored in favor of traveling through the city. Like the reality had sunk in for him, and France sighed softly, kneeling in front of him, with some difficulty, he might add.

He looked up into Horace’s eyes, sharp and astute, but nervous, and entirely, undeniably young. France put his hands on Horace’s shoulders and held his gaze, smiling at him as kindly and reassuringly as he could, hoping the effect wasn’t ruined by his bloodied, post-revival appearance, “Your papa has missed you terribly,” France nodded slightly towards the house, “I’m sure he wants you home, Horace Vernet, best not keep him waiting any longer. And besides,” He added, “You must be awfully hungry by now, imagine the food you’ll get to eat again, you might even have a bath.” His voice was still hardly a whisper, but he grinned at Horace, knowing that he would miss him, though they’d spent naught but a few hours together. 

Horace nodded, more to himself than to France, his slight frown growing slowly into a smile, nodding again, “Merci, Monsieur.” He thanked France, turning then to the door, and France pushed him along with a hand on his back, letting him run up to the front of the house.

He watched, from the shadowed street, as, a moment or two after Horace’s knock upon the door, it opened, a man in his mid-thirties looking down, at first in shock, and then in an overwhelming relief felt only by a parent whose child had returned to them. The man sunk down, holding Horace’s cheeks, shoulders, looking him over frantically for any injuries, picking him up and hugging him to his chest, retreating into the house. And France, from the street, smiled to himself, feeling simultaneously relieved, overjoyed, and saddened, bittersweet at the loss of his small, excited companion. He turned, walking once again down the road, back to the main streets of the city, back to his own home, which would now seem rather lonesome in comparison. But that was alright, it was what he was most used to, after all, and overall, he was content, he was _happy_.

He hadn’t made it very far before he heard a voice behind him, “Monsieur France, attendez!” 

France froze, turning around, shocked to find Horace running towards him, and beyond, on the sidewalk outside the house, stood his father, watching them from afar. Upon reaching France, Horace held up a small cloth bag for France to take, which he did, still stunned. He looked at the bag, then at Horace, who bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement, something he never seemed to run short on. France glanced at the bag again, opening it slightly to look inside, a loaf of cloth-wrapped bread sitting next to a bottle of wine. He looked back to Horace, the silent question painting his features in confusion.

“Papa said that we should thank you, he chose the wine, but I wanted to give you bread!” He punctuated the statement by hugging France around the waist.

France responded belatedly, wrapping his arms around Horace’s smaller frame in return, letting go after a moment, Horace pulling back with a grin, “Merci beaucoup, Horace, I appreciate it more than I can say.” He smiled softly, “Au revoir, mon ami, be good for your papa, d’accord?”

Horace’s grin widened, and he glanced down the street to his father, then turned back to France, “I will Monsieur, au revoir!” And with that he ran back to his house down the street, embracing his father, who put a hand on his back, raising one to France himself in silent gratitude, which France returned with his own wave, watching the two of them return to their house before he himself continued his walk back to his own home, unable to keep the small smile off his face as he traveled.

  


* * *

  


“Come look at this one, Love.”

France looked up at the sound of Britain’s voice, having previously been studying a late 18th century piece depicting a raging overseas battle. It wasn’t the best painting of the sea he’d ever seen, but it managed to perfectly capture the emotions of the ocean-bound wars he’d fought so often so long ago. He could almost taste the salten air, the sharp scent of gunpowder, of cannon fire. He felt rather nostalgic, looking upon this painting.

Nevertheless, he turned towards Britain’s voice, the man himself standing in front of a rather striking painting of various greens, ranging from dark blue greens of the sea, to the bright yellows of overhead sunlight. He walked over to get a closer look, coming up beside Britain to gaze at the painting, now seeing a cliffside, a scene of dramatic, emotional intensity, depicting a grave, the light shining upon it, faces of mourners and marshalls alike consoling each other, expressions painting in anguish or shock or saddened resignation. Some faces that France _recognized_ among the shadowed right hand side of the painting. 

“It’s named _Napoleon’s Tomb_ ,” Britain’s voice came again, it’s warm tone breaking through France’s brief stunned surprise, his arm coming around France’s waist, pulling him close, “Rather overdramatic if you ask me, he was buried by the side of a creek, it was hardly the oceanside grave of his painting.”

France breathed a laugh, leaning his head on Britain’s shoulder, “It’s about the _emotions_ mon amour, the side of a creek doesn’t have the emotional weight needed to portray the grief the nation felt, I felt, in the face of his death. Since you wouldn’t even let me bury him in his own country and all.”

“Yes, well, he was a dictator, and we couldn’t have anymore of that wild freneticism running rampant through your government, you’d caused us all enough trouble at that point.”

“He wasn’t a dictator, I will not have this argument with you, _again_ , you were wrong not to let a man’s final wishes be granted for something as simple as his final resting place, but it has been righted now, that’s the end of it.” France sighed, closing his eyes.

Britain’s hand rubbed idly at the junction of France’s hip, “I will concede you the point, but only just this once.”

France laughed, poking Britain’s side playfully, “There are many points you should concede to me, but I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with this one.” He looked at the painting again, marveling at the waves of the ocean, the play of the light, the fuzzy faces of people he recognized from two centuries back, a few of which he would probably never forget. “Who’s the artist?” He asked quietly.

Britain hummed, leaning slightly to look at the plaque beside the frame of the piece, “Some bloke named Horace Vernette? No, that would be Vernay, Vernet.” He pronounced the French name with the typical grace of any Englishman pronouncing French, but France did not make fun of him for it this time, too surprised was he at the mention of a name he had never truly forgotten but that had slipped from his mind for the longest of times. He leaned over, reading the plaque for himself, whispering the name once, twice, three times, he never thought he’d hear that name again. Was it the same..?

“What is it? Something wrong?” Britain asked, confusion, and something that wasn’t quite concern but getting close to it both painting his tone.

“Non,” France nearly whispered, “Non, nothing’s wrong, I just... remembered something, that’s all. Something I haven’t thought about in a long time.”

“Met this Vernet fellow before, have you?”

“Mm, something like that. It was a long time ago, during the revolution, I never knew he... I thought for sure he had been lost to history and time.”

Britain hummed again, his hand coming down to hold France’s, “People tend to surprise us like that, I’ve found.”

France squeezed his hand, “I can certainly concede that to you, though it’s not often that it occurs, this time you are quite right.”

Britain laughed quietly, but didn’t respond further, and France smiled to himself, remembering bright, excited eyes, and the old Paris streets of the late 18th century. Funny how art always tended to make him feel rather nostalgic for the oddest of things, and seemed keen to remind him of the things he worried he was forgetting.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this, i am forever in your debt, dear reader. 
> 
> the french:  
> bonjour: do i have to translate this one? it means hello/good day just in case  
> bonsoir: good evening  
> monsieur: mister/mr.  
> non: no,, that one should be fairly obvious  
> magique: magic  
> la france: what the french call france cause they cant resist articles  
> enchanté: nice to meet you/enchanted  
> oui: yes  
> exactement: exactly  
> d'accord: ok  
> chéri: dear/my dear, basic term of endearment  
> rue saint martin: saint martin street  
> merci (beaucoup): thank you (so much/very much)  
> bien sûr: of course  
> allons-y: let's go  
> s'il vous plaît: please  
> ça va: this can be used a lot of ways, in this context its basically "are you ok/you good?"  
> attendez: wait  
> au revoir: goodbye  
> mon ami: my friend
> 
> i'd like to formally apologize to france, im sorry you had to be my favorite, but now i must hurt you, it pains both of us, i promise


End file.
